


Revelations in the Library

by fakinbrilliance



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Harpies, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, The Stilinskis Rock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2326658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakinbrilliance/pseuds/fakinbrilliance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles met his dad’s steady gaze, and sighed. Ever since he’d discovered that Lycanthropy was an actual, contractible medical condition, he’d been angsting about when, where, and how to break the news to his dad. Cowering behind the collapsed remains of the Self-Help section in Beacon Hill’s Library had never really been on the list, but thanks to some unfortunate timing, Stiles’ truly terrible luck, and an incredibly inconsiderate flock of harpies, it would have to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelations in the Library

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this ages ago, before Sheriff Stilinski actually found out in the show. Then I forgot about it. Found it recently, dusted it off a bit, and decided it might as well have a home here. Nothing terribly dramatic. I just love the Stilinski family dynamic :)

Stiles knew he didn’t have the best of luck. 

True, he was lucky to be alive at all considering the sheer number of life-threatening situations he’d been through, but normal people probably didn’t find themselves in those life-threatening situations to begin with. 

No. If Stiles had a average person’s dose of luck, he’d be at home right now, studying for tomorrow’s economics exam or playing Assassin’s Creed, or, more likely, watching the newest episode of Sherlock on BBC.

Instead, Stiles and his shitty luck were huddled in a semi-destroyed corner of Beacon Hills’ Library, hiding from giant, feathery doom. 

“I thought you said you were studying with Scott today,” Dad demanded, voice low and urgent. He was wearing his Sheriff’s uniform and a tight expression, knuckles white around the grip of his gun. 

Stiles cursed his luck again, because _of course_ Dad had been on duty tonight, and _of course_ he’d been patrolling Jameson Street barely a block away, when all the ruckus started five minutes ago. 

Stiles sighed. “To be fair, this is the library,” he pointed out reasonably, peering over an upended bookshelf to see how the pack was fairing. He ducked right back down when a hardback volume of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban sailed straight at his head. He was pretty sure Jackson had flung it at him. The ass. 

Stiles wanted to be out there helping, but as soon as his dad had shown up, Derek had shoved him sideways at the Sheriff and growled, _“Get him out of here,”_ and even Stiles recognized that it wasn’t a good time to argue.

With effort, he refocused on his dad’s tense face. “I wasn’t actually planning on fighting monsters today,” he offered, in lieu of an explanation. The crash of glass shattering on the other side of the room told him someone had just been thrown through the library’s lovely stained glass window. Shame. “That just sort of happened.” 

“Stiles,” Dad said with the measured calm of a man who coaxed confessions out of violent criminals for a living, “Why am I getting the impression that this kind of thing _just sort of happens_ to you pretty often?”

Stiles met his dad’s steady gaze, and sighed. Ever since he’d discovered that Lycanthropy was an actual, contractible medical condition, he’d been angsting about when, where, and how to break the news to his dad. Cowering behind the collapsed remains of the Self-Help section in Beacon Hill’s Library had never really been on the list, but thanks to some unfortunate timing, Stiles’ truly terrible luck, and an incredibly inconsiderate flock of harpies, it would have to do.

“Because it does?” he answered helplessly, trying not to worry about the growling and pained whimpers coming from the other side of the bookshelves. Then he added, because it needed to be said even if all the cards were already visibly on the table, “Monsters are real, Beacon Hills is basically Grand Central Station for the supernatural, and most of my friends are werewolves.” When another volume of Harry Potter careened over their heads, Stiles amended, “And my frienimies, too.” 

A splintering wooden creak, a loud series of bangs, and the forlorn fluttering of several thousand pages of underappreciated literature announced the collapse of the library’s classics section. 

“This is probably something we should talk about when we make it outside,” Stiles suggested. The _away from the giant angry bird people_ was strongly implied.

Right on cue, one of the harpies dove from the rafters with an inhuman shriek. There was an unpleasantly solid thunk, and half a heartbeat later, a werewolf-sized blur flew past and smashed into the wall behind them. 

“Was that _Scott?_ ” Dad demanded. His stoic sheriff face had finally cracked, revealing an edge of panic as he watched his son’s slightly-harrier-than-normal best friend push himself up and out of a pile of rubble that had been a wall moments before. Without sparing a glance for them, Scott darted back into the fray, eyes glinting red.

“Uh...yes?” Stiles nodded. 

Dad’s jaw set, his eyes narrowed, and Stiles barely had time to say, “Wait, Dad, _NO!_ ” before the sheriff was on his feet, gun out and firing once, twice, three times up into the rafters.

There were three agonized shrieks followed by three heavy thumps as the dark, feathered bodies of the remaining harpies fell lifeless to the ground.

“Huh,” Stiles said, gingerly pushing himself to his feet. “Bullets actually work on them. Nice shot.” Then he noticed that his dad still had his gun raised, pointed squarely at the group of mostly teenaged werewolves milling about in the middle of the library. 

“No!” Stiles yelped, leaping up onto the toppled bookshelf to get between his pack and the gun. “Dad! They’re the good guys!” He waved his arms a little, like maybe the flailing would distract his dad from idiot Jackson’s threatening growl. “Mostly.” 

To the side he muttered, “Shut _up_ Jackson. You are _so_ not helping this situation.” To his surprise, Jackson actually did.

Dad raised an eyebrow and slowly lowered his gun. “We’re going to have a long conversation tonight about the sharing of important information, kiddo,” he said as he flipped the safety on his gun.

Stiles relaxed, stepped off the bookshelf, and slung his arm around his dad’s shoulders. “Right. Perfect. That sounds great, Dad. But first,” he gestured at the feathery carnage littering the library’s carpeted floor, “We need to think of a cover story and get rid of these bodies before the rest of your department shows up.” Noticing his dad’s pained expression he shrugged. “Unless you want to explain harpies to everyone on the force tonight. That’s really our only other option here.”

“You know,” Dad sighed, reluctantly holstering his gun, “I think I was actually happier when I thought you’d joined a gang.”

☆★☆

“So,” Dad said, sliding into a chair across the kitchen table from Stiles and pulling open a grease-stained paper bag. He reached inside and took out two double bacon cheeseburgers, a large side of curly fries and a small side salad with fat-free ranch. “Werewolves.”

“Yep,” Stiles nodded and grabbed for the fries. 

Dad raised an eyebrow, pulling the fries and both burgers well out of reach. He slid the small side salad over to Stiles instead.

“Aw, come on,” Stiles protested, but the Sheriff just gave him a look, and started unwrapping one of the cheeseburgers. “Fine,” he grumbled. He knew from experience that some shocks to the system could only be treated with grease and carbs. Discovering your jurisdiction was overrun by monsters and teenage werewolves probably counted as one of them.

“How long have you known about all this?” Dad demanded, maintaining eye contact as he took an enormous bite of the cheeseburger.

Stiles sighed and peeled the cover off his salad. 

“Uh…” he said, fiddling with the ranch packet more to have something to do with his hands than because he actually wanted to eat it. Low fat. Yuck. “Remember the hunt for Laura Hale’s body? That was kind of the start of it all.”

Dad’s eyebrow shot up. “That was nearly two years ago.”

Stiles poked at the wilted lettuce and soggy croutons, and nodded, trying not to look too guilty. 

“I wanted to tell you.” He knew it was a flimsy sentiment, but it was easier to prevaricate than to explain the whole, messy truth. The truth that the supernatural world was dangerous, and in Stiles’ limited experience, finding out about it was like suddenly having a giant target painted on your back. Dad’s job was risky enough on a normal day; the possibility of adding another level of threat had not, exactly, been appealing. “Would you have believed me if I’d told you?” he asked instead.

“Apparently you could have presented some compelling evidence,” Dad pointed out, folding the greasy wrapper farther down to expose more cheese and meat. He took another bite and chewed slowly before asking, “How many of your friends are actually werewolves?”

“A few,” Stiles hedged. And shit, that was definitely Dad’s sheriff-face. More precisely, that was Dad’s interrogation face. Which meant questions. A lot of questions. Stiles stared down at his sad side salad like he was considering using it as a shield. 

“Scott,” Dad said.

It wasn’t really a question, but Stiles’ self-preservation instincts actually kicked in for once and he managed not to point that out. “Werewolf,” he confirmed, nodding.

“Isaac.”

Stiles nodded again. “Werewolf.”

“Allison.”

“Hunter,” Stiles answered, then, noticing his dad’s blank look, added, “A werewolf hunter. All of the Argents are.”

His dad chewed thoughtfully for a second, probably contemplating the number of licensed firearms Chris Argent owned, before continuing doggedly down his list. “Lydia.”

“Banshee.”

His dad choked on a curly fry. “A banshee? That’s an actual thing?”

Stiles shrugged. “Apparently?”

The sheriff shook his head, staring down at the cheeseburger in his hand like he was hoping to find an epiphany tucked between the two buns. Sadly, there was only meat and cheese. He sighed and looked up at Stiles again. “Kira.”

“Kitsune. It’s a kind of fox spirit.” He added before his dad could ask. 

Dad’s eyebrows looked like they were trying to migrate north to his hairline, but he just shook his head a little and continued, “Derek Hale.”

“Werewolf. Most of the Hales were.”

“What about those two runaways that are always hanging around Hale? The Reyes girl and Vergil Boyd.”

Stiles winced. “Vernon,” he corrected, imagining Boyd’s reaction to the mistake. “And they’re both werewolves.”

“The twins…Ethan and Aiden, isn’t it?”

Stiles nodded. “Werewolves.”

“And the Whitmore boy?” 

“Ex-giant-lizard-creature, current werewolf.”

“Lizard?” Dad asked weakly.

“Yeah. A Kanima? A huge, paralytic, vengeance lizard. That’s why I chained him up in the police van that one time. Remember?” Judging by the sheriff’s narrowed eyes, he remembered a little too clearly. Stiles hurried on. “He was being controlled by stalker Matt. You nearly met him that night at the station, actually.” 

From the pained look his dad was giving him, that bit of information was a little hard to digest. Or maybe that was just the cheeseburger. Either way, he didn’t look too happy. “And Matt?”

“Human!” Stiles supplied cheerfully, proud that someone he knew could actually claim that distinction. “Just your average, run-of-the-mill human. Or, no. I guess wasn’t really average, more of a psychopathic murderer with a giant killer lizard-man for a pet. But still, human!”

For some reason, his dad didn’t look nearly as comforted by that as Stiles had hoped. He did sigh and slide over the other cheeseburger, though, so Stiles was going to count it as a win.

“What about your lab partner, Danny?”

“Human,” Stile said, shoving the sad salad aside in favor of his burger. “But he knows about werewolves.”

“So he’s in the…” Dad hesitated, clearly searching for the word Stiles had used in his hasty explanation at the library, “the _pack._ Like you?” 

“Not exactly.” Stiles made a vague sort of gesture with his free hand. “He kind of lost his best friend when Jackson made his mystical transformation from douchebag to douche-lizard to douche-wolf, then fled to England for a few months, which wasn’t exactly the most promising introduction to the supernatural, if you know what I mean. And then, just before Jackson came back, he found out that the guy he’d been dating was an alpha werewolf and a _killer_. Or, well, ex-alpha now. But he _was_ an alpha then, and he’s still technically a killer even if he’s sort of on our side at this point. Murder doesn’t just go away no matter how nice you’re pretending to be or how good you look shirtless. I mean…uh…Danny’s taking a bit of a break from the supernatural at the moment.”

The worry lines in his dad’s brow had increased exponentially during that little rant, and Stiles saw his lips silently form the words ‘alpha’ and ‘shirtless’ before he shook his head and refocused on Stiles. “You’ve never considered doing that?” he asked.

“Going shirtless?”

“Taking a break from the supernatural. You’re still human,” Dad said, then stiffened, his gaze suddenly sharper as he demanded, “Right?”

“Yeah, Dad,” Stiles said placatingly, trying hard not to think of the nogitsune, still eternally grateful his dad had been temporarily stationed in another jurisdiction during that hellish couple of weeks. “Still a soft, squishy, breakable human,” he tried for a cheeky grin, but judging by his dad’s thin-lipped expression, he’d fallen pretty short of the mark. 

“Then why not take a break like Danny?”

Stiles sighed and shook his head. “I can’t,” he answered. “I just…can’t, Dad.” He wanted to explain why he couldn’t walk away, to tell his dad that the pack needed him, and that he needed them; that pack wasn’t just a word, it was a feeling of friendship and a family all rolled in one. He’d die to protect anyone in the pack, and he thought they would probably die for him, too. 

For some reason, the words wouldn’t come. 

“Ok,” Dad said, and Stiles could see in his eyes – in the eyes of a man who strapped on a gun and stood between danger and the innocent every day – that his dad understood what Stiles couldn’t articulate. The sheriff squeezed Stiles’ shoulder and cleared his throat. “Alright.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and when he opened them again, there was a resigned smile crinkling their corners. “So how about your teachers? There must be a vampire or a ghost in there somewhere.”

“Nah, they’re human,” Stiles answered with his own smile, then he thought about it for a second and added, “Mostly. My old English Teacher was an evil druid and the councilor was an emissary for a pack of alpha werewolves. But the rest are human, I think.”

“Really?” Dad asked in disbelief. “Even _Finstock?_ ”

Stiles just shrugged, “As far as I know.”

It was a long night – the sheriff had a lot of questions after all, some easier to answer than others – but it was a good night, too.


End file.
